The Ghosts of Lake Tahoe

by Patrick Betson

  “Well, what do you think?” William asked as Colonel Clare looked over the side of the dinghy. It was another beautiful morning and the two had wasted no time getting out on the lake.

  “Between two and three foot in diameter, I would say.” Colonel Clare had a big smile on his face. “I think you might have just found the cause of the problem and given us a chance at a substantial fortune!” The problem Colonel Clare referred to was the unexplained flooding of the silver mines in Virginia City, and in particular the flooding of the Savage Mine, which was the deepest mine of the Comstock Lode. “If we can plug it, maybe we can control events to our advantage. We need a conical plug maybe two feet high, three and a half feet wide at the top, narrowed down to two foot wide at the bottom.”

  The two friends approached the local lumber camp. Finding a pine tree suitable was not difficult, but cutting and shaping a conical plug took the skills of an experienced lumberjack. It was a strange request but the camp manager asked no questions. Once shaped, the plug was secured to a sixty-foot chain by means of a railroad spike. To the other end of the chain they attached a steamer buoy. William and the colonel were anxious to try the plug out as soon as everything was completed. The plug and chain weighed more than a hundred and fifty pounds and it took their combined efforts to gently load it on board the dinghy.

  They rowed to the whirlpool and dropped the plug over the side. The plug and chain descended quickly and were caught by the vortex and sucked into position. With a jolt the buoy was pulled under the surface, but with a gush it reappeared seconds later. It had worked. The whirlpool was gone, the buoy was floating on a placid lake, and the two friends rejoiced. Their moment of victory was short lived. Because the plug was stuck fast, neither man could free it. They pulled together, as hard as they could without capsizing the dinghy. They pulled and pulled but the plug would not move.

  Undeterred, they left the buoy afloat and returned ashore. Again at the lumber camp, they paid to have a winch fitted. Winches were used at the lumber camps to haul cut logs aboard the ox wagons. The winch was purposely blocked into the stern of the dinghy so it could withstand more than five hundred pounds of stress. Rowing back to the buoy, while the colonel kept the dinghy steady, William attached the chain to the winch. Meeker positioned his weight for balance as the hand-cranked winch took the strain. Using both hands, he pulled at the handle. After a moment of obstinacy, the plug freed, the whirlpool came back into life and the boat started circling. They tested plugging and unplugging two more times before they finally hoisted the buoy. With the chain and plug on board, they rowed back to the cabin. That night Colonel Clare returned to San Francisco, leaving William to safeguard their interests at the lake.

  The San Francisco stock market was small and all the brokers knew each other. No one before doubted Colonel Clare’s judgment; he was known for his caution and good sense. So why was he now buying up the stock in the Savage Mine?

  “The Savage Mine is worthless,” said one broker to another.

  “Then why is Clare buying at every turn?” asked the other.

  “I don’t know, but look at the facts: half the shafts are flooded, the water continues to rise, and the pumps are useless to prevent it. The Savage Mine is past tense! Clare is either suffering from a mental breakdown or needing a business write-off. I advise you to sell!”

  Colonel Clare had never enjoyed himself more. He had spent a busy day buying up the seemingly obsolete Savage Mine. Many times he was asked why he was buying, but he would just state that he was willing to buy any stock at a very fair price. By the end of three days of buying, Colonel Clare was the Savage Mine’s majority stockholder.

  William Meeker trimmed a cigar. His reaction upon hearing Colonel Clare’s news was one of elation. “Brilliant!” Then a cloud of doubt passed over his face. “What if they don’t pump the mine, thinking it useless to attempt it?”

  “Not a problem. As majority stockholder, I shall insist they do!”

  “Brilliant!” Meeker spluttered through his cigar, excited again.

  “Let’s get the plug in place first thing tomorrow. I can’t be away too long.” By the following afternoon, Colonel Clare was on the train back to San Francisco. The two conspirators had successfully plugged the hole earlier that morning.

  At the Savage Mine in Virginia City the following day, the pit boss went to see Jameson. “We’ve had a cable from that new owner fella. He wants us to try the pumps again. I guess we had better do as he says, but these owners haven’t got a clue what we’re up against here.”

  Two days later, the pit boss was astounded to hear Jameson report that the waters were down more than fifty feet.

  “We’ll see how tomorrow’s pumping goes first before we tell this new owner.”

  The pumps were started earlier the next day. At the end of the day, Jameson reported to his boss. “The water’s down nearly a hundred feet, all told. Another five days like this and we’ll be able to start mining again!”

  A week of pumping, and all the shafts were dry. Not daring to believe it, the pit boss cautiously gave the go-ahead for operations to restart.

  New men were hired, and silver veins that had been submerged beneath water for months were reworked. Slowly and steadily the amount and quality of ore improved. By the end of May, the Savage Mine was producing as much silver as any other mine on the Comstock.

  It was a truly remarkable turn-around.

  July 1869

  William Meeker, still in Carnelian Bay, had done his level best to keep up with the Savage Mine reports. He had begun to wonder if just being an owner of a successful mine was not reward enough. He was like a proud father as he saw the mine produce more and more good quality ore. Just as Meeker was feeling flushed with pride a cable came from San Francisco: “HAVE STARTED TO SELL STOCK WILL RETURN NEXT WEEK CLARE.”

  On his return to Carnelian Bay, Colonel Clare explained that he had sold all the stock, and had deposited in excess of a million dollars in profit into a new bank account. Delighted with the news, Meeker did, however, mention his earlier thought that it had been nice to see the mine do so well and be a part of its success.

  “No!” had been Clare’s emphatic response. Clare illustrated his argument in telling his friend that it was they that controlled fate and not fate that controlled them. If they stayed with the mine, they would have to run the gauntlet of possible cave-ins, explosions, poisonous gases, or even the discovery of no new silver. To get in quick, turn a handsome profit, and get out quick was the best policy.

  Meeker bowed to Clare’s better understanding. “Yes, I guess you’re right. A million dollars is a handsome profit.”

  The colonel clapped his hand on Meeker’s shoulder. “Yes, my friend, this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity!” Clare winked. “And we’d be foolish not to do it again!”

  Meeker started to choke on his cigar “What!!!?” he blurted.

  “Come on, think about it. We did it once, we can do it again! A million dollars is good. A million apiece is even better!”

  “It’s preposterous! We’ll be found out!”

  “It’s not as preposterous as your face, and I will do it with or without you!”

  Meeker wanted out but it was too late. The colonel had all the cards. He controlled everything: the events, the money, and him. He was beginning to wish he had not let Colonel Clare in on his discovery. The next morning, the two men pulled the plug again.

  Everyone at the Savage Mine was frustrated. The pumps were not working as they had back in April, and the flooding was again uncontrollable. There was much consternation at the San Francisco stock exchange too. Shareholders watched the value of the Savage Mine shares slide more and more. A group of brokers on the floor of the exchange came up to Colonel Clare and commended him on his luck in getting out of the mine at just the right time. He tried to reassure them.

  “My dear fellows the flooding is a temporary nuisance. I’m sure in a week or two there will be productive mining again. Just b
e patient.”

  “It’s all right for you!” retorted a frustrated broker. “We’ve lost our shirts!”

  “Again, I believe the flooding is temporary, and if you don’t agree, I’ll buy your stock at a third of your original purchase price. But don’t come crying to me when the stock is up again!”

  Despite Colonel Clare’s words of encouragement, the Savage mining operations had to be abandoned. The stock was now worth barely ten cents on the dollar. Clare was inundated by brokers who wanted to sell. To those he had spoken to before, he did buy at a third of their original purchase price. To others he was not so generous. He was no fool and felt that by being too sensitive to everyone’s bad luck might appear suspicious.

  Over a further period of two weeks, Colonel Clare slowly became the Savage Mine’s majority stockholder again.

  Not long after that, the plug was back in the hole, the shafts were pumped dry, and the Savage Mine was back in business.

  August and September were again productive and the stock price rose every week.

  October 1869

  It was early October when Colonel Clare was approached by one of the most eminent stockbrokers in San Francisco, Herbert Thorn. After a cordial greeting and some suitable small talk, Thorn mentioned he had been instructed by clients to make a reasonable offer for Clare’s interest in the Savage Mine.

  “A reasonable offer, you say. Would you like to enlighten me?” Clare casually inquired.

  “I can see I will have to give you their best offer, and I am instructed to go as high as one million dollars.” Thorn’s superior indifference annoyed the colonel.

  “You increase that offer by another half million and you have yourself a deal,” countered Clare.

  Thorn was a little less indifferent. “Colonel Clare, I happen to know you could not have spent more than three hundred thousand for your shares. With the mine susceptible to flooding, I suggest a million is a very generous offer!” Although still condescending, Thorn’s voice was now clearly agitated.

  “The flooding comes and goes, I’ll agree. But when it goes, the ore being mined is of an exceptional quality! One and a half million and the stock is yours. A good day to you, sir,” retaliated the colonel.

  Two days later, Clare sold the stock to Thorn for one and a half million dollars. Having banked the money with the previous profit, the Colonel sent a cable to Carnelian Bay: “HAVE ACHIEVED GOAL C.C.”

  It had been a beautiful early autumn day at Carnelian Bay. The sun was still warm and the few aspen trees around the lake stood golden among the green pines. Another month and the first snows would come, and William Meeker would have to leave. It had been an enjoyable and peaceful six months, and now he was richer than he had ever dreamed. As he relaxed in an armchair, the late afternoon sun cast long shadows through the cabin windows. He clipped and lit a cigar and reflected on his good fortune.

  His sublime solitude was interrupted by a sudden knock on the cabin door. It was the colonel. Clare explained his unexpected arrival by telling William he wanted to pull the plug for the last time. He had no liking for Thorn and it would give him great personal satisfaction to see Thorn’s reputation ruined. Meeker suggested dinner, followed by a game of cards in front of the log fire, with brandy to toast their new found wealth. To William’s surprise, Colonel Clare dismissed the suggestion and stated he wanted pull the plug that very evening.

  The sun had disappeared behind the mountains by the time the two men started to row out on the lake. With daylight fading, it took a little longer to find the buoy. William Meeker hauled the buoy on board and attached the chain to the winch. Having successfully freed the plug, William continued to winch as Colonel Clare sat at the oars. Just as William got the plug to the surface, Clare remarked. “What a beautiful moonrise we have this evening, William.”

  William, who was facing the colonel, had to turn around to look at the moon. With Meeker’s back toward him, Colonel Clare snatched the winch handle. With little noise he raised it high and swiftly brought it down hard on William’s turned head. Meeker’s body fell forward and lay motionless. Clare grabbed an arm and a leg and heaved the dead weight into the water.

  Jameson came in to see his pit boss. “There is nothing to identify the man. He is well dressed. He has an expensive fob watch, a silk handkerchief, and one gold cigar trimmer.”

  If ever there was a majestic setting worthy of the adjective, it had to be Eagle Bay. Eagle Bay was a virtual lake of its own, encircled by steep cliffs, except for a narrow opening into Lake Tahoe’s southwest corner. Rising out of the bay’s emerald green waters stood Lake Tahoe’s only island.

  The bay was the domain of the bald eagle, which kept an ever-watchful eye from its craggy throne high on the surrounding cliffs. In years before, the eagle had seen the occasional canoe enter the bay paddled by two Indians. More recently the eagle had watched the building of two log cabins, and the visitors who had come and gone. However, not until now had any human chosen to live permanently at the bay.

  The first man to live through the harsh winters of Tahoe’s southwest shore was late of Her Majesty’s Navy. An English seafarer who had experienced the worst of Cape Horn was not one to fear any tantrum Tahoe could throw, even in her foulest mood. He had lived at Eagle Bay for the past eighteen months in splendid isolation. Once a week he would sail his fourteen-foot sloop the six miles over to the south shore community and buy his weekly provisions. Every week was a carbon copy of the week before. He would tie up at the south shore pier around noon. After eating lunch, he shopped at the general store where he bought his vittles and pipe tobacco. The last purchase was always his most precious: a demi-john of whiskey, to tide him over for the six days he spent alone.

  Having stowed his purchases aboard his boat, he would return to town to spend the rest of the evening drinking among friends at Rowland’s Lake House. With his cheery disposition and pipe in mouth, the captain was always a welcome, once-weekly addition to the regulars of the smoke-filled saloon. For a few hours, the captain would socialize and down several shots of whiskey before leaving. Then, close to midnight, he would stagger back down to the pier, inebriated and sail back to Eagle Bay.

  It was a fine early December morning when the captain left Eagle Bay to sail over to south shore. The day had been uneventful and the captain had received his usual warm greeting at Rowland’s. He walked to a vacant stall at the bar, acknowledged all his friends, talked, listened, drank, and smoked for a good part of four hours. Then a newly arrived patron spoke.

  “Best you stay here tonight, Cap’n. It’s snowing outside.”

  “Yes, there’s a definite storm in the offing,” added another.

  “No, lads, I’ll sleep in my own bed. A little bit of snow aren’t going to persuade me otherwise!”

  The captain wished everyone a good night and staggered into the cold night air. The wooden pier was now covered in several inches of snow, and he gingerly stepped, fearing to slip. The wind was strong and the snow fell steadily as he tottered aboard his little boat. With haphazard hand strokes he cleared the snow off the boat’s lines and untied her. He also cleared a space on the wooden seat and set sail.

  The captain was just two miles offshore when the snow fell so hard that visibility could only be measured in feet. The wind was so erratic that it seemed to blow from every direction, and it tossed the little boat up and down and from side to side.

  He was unable to keep his seat as waves battered the boat from all sides. He thought of running down the sail, but before he could do that simple task, a stronger gust of wind snapped the mast, and as it fell it knocked the Captain over-board. The coldness of the water had one advantage: he regained all the awareness of sobriety. Survival expectancy was a matter of minutes. Treading water, coughing, and spitting the captain strained every nerve to catch sight of his sloop. Every wave washed the breath from him. Every second, the aching cold became more intense.

  A year and a half earlier, on a chance meeting in San Francisco
, Captain Dick Barter had been introduced to Ben Holladay. Holladay, the famed stagecoach pioneer, had taken an immediate liking to the old English seafarer. Holladay liked the captain’s honest expression, the grey eyes vivid in a weathered face of scars and wrinkles. The two had struck up an instant friendship on a mutual respect for each other’s differing lifestyles. Captain Dick had accepted Ben Holladay’s offer to accompany him on one of his stages up to Virginia City. En route, Holladay had suggested visiting his cabins on Eagle Bay at Lake Tahoe. They had taken a fourteen-foot sloop named The Nancy from south shore on a perfect June day. The captain had marveled at the beauty of the lake and the wonderful seclusion of the bay.

  “Yes, it is beautiful,” Holladay had commented. “But unfortunately the cabins fall into disrepair without proper care and attention. I need a permanent caretaker, but no man in his right mind would stay here all year round.”

  “I would!” the captain had cheerfully declared.

  Ben Holladay, buoyed by his new friend’s enthusiasm, described the harshness of a Sierra winter and the possibility of an enforced and undesired isolation. The captain had explained, in return, that in his many years at sea he was no stranger to the bitterness of winter weather.

  In eighteen months the captain had never regretted coming to Lake Tahoe. But this night, he felt sure, would be his last. He repented his folly to the Almighty and asked for forgiveness for his many sins. The answering hand of God came on a crest of a wave, as the mast crashed upon the captain from behind. No longer in the last throes of life, the captain grabbed the mast with renewed vigor. Though the mast had snapped in two, it was still attached to the boat by its rigging. Hand over hand he pulled rigging and the boat toward him. The boat fought like an unbroken stallion, but the captain was like a man possessed. He pulled it closer and closer. Finally within an arm’s-length, he grabbed the gunwale and with the strength of Poseidon hoisted himself back on board.